


Happiness Is Sweet However Long It Takes

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, young married Ned and Cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: This is my gift to sonofeomund for the Ned/Cat Secret Santa exchange on tumblr. I was told they like happy Ned/Cat in canon or modern au. As my annual Christmas fic this year was pretty happy and fluffy and modern AU, I decided to go with canon universe here (a pre-canon tale), and while I promise this story has fluffy, happy ending, there's a bit of angst. One of my favorite things about Ned and Cat is that they CHOSE to look for happiness in their marriage when they could have chosen otherwise, they worked for their happiness, and it took a long time for the two of them to even learn how to communicate and understand each other. Yet they did it. And they earned every moment of love and happiness they shared.





	Happiness Is Sweet However Long It Takes

Catelyn stretched and then shivered as she sat up and let the blanket fall away from her in the grey dawn light of her bedchamber. It wasn’t truly cold, she realized. It was only the cool air against the thin fabric of her nightshift that caused her to shiver. Her chambers never were unless Ned opened the windows. Of course, Ned hadn’t opened those windows in some time.

Pushing that unwanted thought from her head, she rose from the bed, pulling her robe over her nightshift and walking to the exquisitely carved cradle nearby. Her four month old daughter slept soundly, and Catelyn smiled at the babe’s beautiful, sweet face, and then felt the familiar tingle in her full breasts. Sansa had only begun sleeping through night within the last fortnight which had gifted Catelyn with much more restful sleep herself, but also cursed to wake with overfull breasts that caused her to pray devoutly the child wouldn’t sleep much longer. She recalled this experience with Robb and knew that if Sansa kept sleeping this well, her body would adapt eventually.

“Are you hungry, my sweetling?” she whispered softly. While she wouldn’t force her babe to wake, she wasn’t above attempting gentle encouragement. When Sansa slept on, Catelyn sighed and walked toward the window. No new snow. That was good. There was actually very little upon the ground now, and Ned swore that spring was in the air. That caused Catelyn to laugh. In the Riverlands, spring in the air meant buds upon all the trees and soft green shoots poking up through the soil—not snowstorms that left only a few inches of soft white on the ground instead of several feet.

She’d only ever been Lady of Winterfell in winter as the promise of spring in the air in the year before the Rebellion had proved false. Of course, Ned had told her repeatedly this was a very mild winter in spite of the fact that these past two years in Winterfell had been the coldest she’d ever experienced, and she’d certainly seen far more snow than she’d seen in all her previous life combined. In spite of that, she’d come to appreciate that her new home had a crisp, wild beauty all its own. She missed the colors of the view from window at Riverrun and suspected she always would. Yet, looking out at Winterfell’s grey walls topped by snow that sparkled as if studded with diamonds when struck by the low hanging winter sun sometimes took her breath away. Especially when she stood at this window with Ned beside her.

_Ned no longer wishes to stand here beside me._ That bitter thought served no purpose so she pushed it into the very back of her mind and tiptoed to open the window at the top just a crack. She needed to know just how cold the morning was as Winterfell’s appearance gave little hint and her chamber was deceptively warm. The air outside might be so bitterly cold that frostbite awaited an ungloved hand in an alarmingly short period of time or merely cool enough that she would require her fur cloak about her shoulders to stand in the courtyard to receive the party from Riverrun today. 

That thought made her smile. The air that blew against her hand threw the now open window made her smile more widely. Oh, it was cold, but she’d lived here long enough to tell the difference between the early morning air that would surely be frigid by midday and the air that would warm as the sun climbed to an almost pleasant temperature—provided one wore a good thick cloak. This air was definitely the latter.

“Your grandfather is arriving on a good day, sweetling!” she said excitedly, turning back toward the cradle. The babe stirred at her voice, and Catelyn shut the window before going to pick up her daughter and dancing about the room with her as the little one slowly awakened in her arms.

 

“Your goodfather’s party has been spotted from the guard towers, my lord.”

Ned looked up at the man who had come to his solar to give him this message. “Very good, Jory. Inform Ser Rodrik and Vayon Poole, please so that the household may assembled and the kitchen staff have the meal ready.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jory hesitated. “And Lady Stark?” he finally asked. “Should I send someone to her?”

Ned sighed. “My lady wife is likely in her chambers or the nursery with our children. I will go and tell her of her father’s approach.” He looked at Jory and allowed the barest hint of a smile on his face as he said, “If she hasn’t climbed one of the guard towers already and seen Lord Tully and his son herself.”

Jory smiled much more readily at that. “It wouldn’t surprise me. I have never seen Lady Stark as excited for anything before. She is anxious to see her family.”

Ned tried not to frown. “Of course. Go on now Jory. I will find Lady Catelyn.”

Jory regarded him a moment, but said nothing else before turning to go. Ned knew perfectly well that he had noticed the tension between himself and Catelyn. In another lifetime, when they were still only Jory and Ned, his friend would have questioned him about it. But he was now Lord Stark, and Jory was his sworn man. A friend might question a friend. But a man did not question his liege lord. Ned missed his friend.

He also missed his wife. But that was another situation entirely. Sighing he rose from his desk and went to find the woman who managed to fill his thoughts regardless how much he struggled to think of anything else.

He found her in the corridor leading to her chambers, wearing her cloak but no hood, with Sansa in her arm and Robb holding tightly to her other hand.

“Your father . . .” he began.

“I know, my lord. I can see the men on the walls from my window.” She smiled. “It was quite clear from all the sudden activity that the Riverrun party has been sighted.” 

It had been a long time since she’d smiled at him so naturally, and it made him feel warm. “Indeed, my lady,” he replied. “May I escort you to the courtyard to greet Lord Tully?” He held out his arm only to realize all her arms were occupied.

“Papa!” Robb cried out before the moment could become too awkward. “Be my horsie!” He was attempting to pull his little hand from Catelyn’s grasp.

“Robb,” Catelyn started to say, but Ned smiled and held up a hand.”

“I can be his horsie, my lady. After all, the Heir to Winterfell should arrive upon a fine steed to greet his lord grandfather, don’t you think?” He smiled at her and then bent to pick Robb up and swing him onto his shoulders.

Robb squealed and clapped his hands before wrapping his little hands around Ned’s beard like it was reins. 

“My lord,” Catelyn said, shaking her head although Ned could see the smile she was trying to hide, “You needn’t . . .”

“I can hold him securely there with one hand, my lady. I give you my word. And still have an arm for my lady wife.” He held his arm out for her once more, and she hesitated only a moment before wrapping her now empty hand around it.

“Please watch the ceilings. He’s taller than you think he is, and I don’t want him to bump his head,” she said.

“He’ll come to no harm,” he assured her. 

She gave him a small smile, and the four of them proceeded to the courtyard linked together as a family. Ned had a fleeting guilty thought of Jon who would spend this particular arrival celebration in the nursery with his nursemaid, but he buried that thought as deeply as he could and contemplated how good it felt to have Catelyn on his arm with both of their children held safely by them. Once he’d dared to hope such moments might begin to come easily. Now, he wondered if he would ever have such moments outside of formal occasions again.

 

“Father!” Catelyn cried out, falling into Hoster Tully’s arms at last while carefully holding Sansa lest she be crushed between them. It had been torture, standing silently by Ned’s side as the two lords formally greeted each other before the assembled people of Winterfell. 

Her father had smiled widely at her as he dismounted from his horse, but Hoster Tully knew his duty, and he’d walked straight to Ned. Her brother had followed her father while Catelyn stared and wondered how Edmure had grown so tall in only two years. He looked nearly a man now. However, the petulant look on his face as he’d offered perfunctory greetings to Ned belied any idea that he’d completely left childhood behind.

Catelyn knew why Edmure looked as if he’d like to punch her husband in the face. On her bad days, she thought the entire Seven Kingdoms must know the reason the Tullys of Riverrun might find fault with the Lord of Winterfell, and she’d felt her cheeks color first with shame both for the cause of Edmure’s ire and for his childish behavior and then anger at herself for feeling any shame. She had done nothing wrong. Ned had been the soul of courtesy, giving no indication that he noticed Edmure’s lack of it, but Catelyn knew that he did. She didn’t know whether to be proud of her husband’s composure or furious at his indifference to his insult toward her family. It seemed she never knew what to feel when it came to Eddard Stark these days.

None of that mattered now as her father held her and called her ‘Little Cat’ and then exclaimed that Sansa was herself born again while Robb tugged at his trouser leg saying, “Are you my lord grandfather?”

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Catelyn allowed her father to take Sansa from her arms as he assured Robb he was indeed his grandfather, and then she found herself pulled into a bone crushing hug by Edmure.

“I’ve missed you, Cat!” he exclaimed.

“Well, don’t express that by crushing me!” she laughed. She pulled back from him enough to look him in his eyes. Without having to look down at all. “What have they been feeding you? You’re so tall!”

Edmure laughed. “Utherydes says everyone else in Riverrun will go hungry if I don’t stop growing soon. He seems to think I eat too much!” 

“Well, we have a lot of food waiting for you in the Great Hall so you can . . .”

“There’s food here? Where on earth do you grow it? This place looks desolate, Cat! And it’s so cold! How do you stand it?”

Seeing her father and Edmure had made Catelyn long for her home in Riverrun, but Edmure’s words surprisingly made her very defensive of her home here in Winterfell. “This isn’t cold,” she said haughtily. “It’s merely cool out today. Spring is right around the corner.” As Edmure stared at her incredulously, she heard her husband start coughing and turned to see if he was well. “My lord?” she asked in concern.

He held up a hand as he continued to cough into his other arm. “I’m well, my lady. It’s nothing,” he managed to choke out. Then he turned away to speak to a man behind him. 

Catelyn frowned at him a moment, but he seemed to have regained his composure so she decided he must be well, and she turned back to Edmure who she noted was glaring at Ned. She bit her tongue to keep from launching into a lecture on courtesy such as she might have given him when he was younger, and decided to follow her husband’s lead and ignore his behavior.

“As for food,” she said lightly. “If you took the time to read the letters from this sister you claim to miss so much, you’d know we have glass gardens. They’re quite wonderful, and I’ll show them to you while you’re here. But first, we’ll feed you.” She grinned at her little . . . well, not so little . . . brother, and hugged him once more before retrieving Sansa from her father.

Now that Hoster’s hands were free, Robb immediately claimed one for his own, tugging it in the direction of the Great Hall. Catelyn thought he must have heard her speak to Edmure about food. Her son might be a great deal smaller than his uncle, but he did have a surprisingly large appetite for such a small human.

Hoster laughed at his grandson and allowed himself to be pulled along, and Edmure offered Catelyn his arm. He began to regale her with tales of his recent adventures at Riverrun, and Catelyn was halfway to the Great Hall before she realized she hadn’t asked her husband’s leave or even told him she was leaving. She next realized that the joy of being with her family once more left no room for any guilt for her marital discourtesy.

 

The welcoming feast went well, Ned thought. Catelyn had certainly enjoyed it. He’d been stunned in the courtyard when he’d turned around to see her practically dancing toward the Great Hall with their children and the Tullys. He’d felt a moment’s irritation with her but then recalled the way his southron wife had pulled herself up to her full height and informed her brother that it wasn’t cold today in Winterfell and spring was in the air. He’d nearly choked himself to death swallowing his laughter at that, but she had enough reason to find fault with him without believing he was making fun of her.

He hadn’t been making fun of her. She was magnificent. He simply couldn’t seem to tell her that. Words did not come easily to him, and it seemed that whatever words he tried to speak to her inspired her only to be more diligent in her duties as the Lady of Winterfell, the wife of the Warden of the North . . . the mother of his heirs.

Ned sighed, watching Edmure Tully spin his lady wife around the floor. The meal was long finished and tables had been pushed back to make room for an impromptu dance. _Her brother is a much better dancer than I am,_ he thought morosely.

“She looks well, Stark,” came a voice from beside him. Hoster Tully stood there holding a sleeping Robb on his shoulder.”

“I can take him, my lord,” Ned said, rising from his seat.”

“No,” the older man said. “I’ll never hold my children like this again. Let me hold Cat’s boy while I can. And when I’m gone back to Riverrun, you can hold him—before you turn around and find him as tall as Edmure.”

Ned nodded.

“I said my daughter looks well,” Hoster said, narrowing his eyes at Ned. “Is she well?”

“I . . . Sansa’s birth was . . . very difficult for her, my lord. But she and our Maester Luwin assure me she is quite well now.”

Hoster frowned. “Difficult? She wrote me that this time in childbed was much easier than it was with Robb in Riverrun. Are you saying my daughter lied to me?”

Ned considered his goodfather’s question. “Catelyn does not lie,” he said finally. “She tends to consider others before herself, however.” He shook his head. “I was not at Riverrun for my son’s birth, much to my regret. But I was here in Winterfell when Sansa was born. I heard my lady’s screams, and I had never heard anything . . . I was told to remain out of her chamber, but . . . I feared for her. Finally I could not stand it, and I went into her room . . .”

“You did what?” Hoster asked incredulously. 

“She is my wife,” Ned said simply. “Sansa is my child. It is my place to keep them well.”

Hoster shook his head and looked at Ned as if he’d lost his mind. “Not much you can do for a woman in childbed, Stark. The man’s part is finished long before. The childbed is the woman’s battle. Not ours.”

“Aye,” Ned said. “And she fought that battle magnificently. I’d never seen a babe born before—the pain and blood required. And the courage. I’d only seen . . .”

“Seen what?” Hoster asked him when he paused.

Ned closed his mind against the image of his sister, pushing it more deeply into his mind—just as he did every time those images surfaced. “I’ve seen women who’ve died in that battle,” he said simply.

“Ah,” Hoster said softly, understanding and grief written on his face. “So have I.”

Too late, Ned remembered that Catelyn’s mother had died in childbed when she was young. “My apologies, my lord,” he said. “I did not mean to . . .”

Hoster waved his apology away. “It was a long time ago. She gave me three wonderful children, Stark. She was a fine woman, and I was blessed to have her as my wife. But I could not fight that battle for her. No man can fight that battle for any woman.” The older man took a deep breath. “But Catelyn is well now, and your daughter is as fine a child as your son. Count your blessings man. And then tell me where this young man’s bed is and I’ll take him there.”

Ned smiled at his goodfather and said, “If you insist on carrying him, I’ll walk there with you.”

They said little as they walked beside each other through the yard and then the corridors of the Great Keep. 

“The nursery is here,” Ned said, stopping at the door. It was closed which meant that Jon was already asleep in his bed. Ned had not laid eyes on the boy the entire day, and the realization filled him with guilt. Looking at his goodfather standing there holding Robb in his arms filled him with another kind of guilt. He swallowed. “I can take him now, if you like.”

“Thank you, but I’d like to lay him in his bed if you don’t mind. I can almost imagine he’s Edmure.”

“He looks like Edmure,” Ned said softly. 

“He does,” Hoster said with a smile. “Eats like Edmure, too.”

Ned smiled in return, but then looked his goodfather in the eyes. “You are welcome to come and put your grandson in his bed, my lord. But I must tell you that Robb is not the only boy who sleeps in these chambers. Jon, my . . . natural son . . . sleeps here as well and is likely already abed.” He couldn’t bring himself to call the boy he loved as his own a bastard but to name him his son to Hoster Tully as the man stood before him holding his true son of his body—the boy who shared blood of them both—twisted Ned’s heart in ways that made it hard to breathe. He steeled his face _Your lord’s face,_ he heard in Catelyn’s laughing voice from a time when they’d been learning to laugh together.

“Your bastard shares a room with your trueborn heir?” Hoster asked him in a dangerously low voice.

“The boys are close in age,” Ned said. “I would have them grow up as brothers.”

“Brothers?” Hoster raised his voice angrily, and Robb stirred on his shoulder. Immediately Hoster stilled and his voice was a whisper when he spoke again. “Aye, they are close in age.” His words dripped with bitterness. “Your words when you spoke of my daughter bringing your daughter into the world made me believe you might still be the honorable man I believed you to be when I gave to you the most precious thing I had. Any man might stumble. Especially amid the hellishness of war. But you must have bedded some wench merely days after leaving your marriage bed, Stark, and that’s difficult for a father to swallow. For my granddaughter’s sake, I hope you never learn how difficult. And when my daughter was birthing your heir, mayhap you were with your mistress while she whelped your bastard. You certainly gave more care to seeing the bastard settled in your home. You brought him here yourself. You sent for my daughter and her son like you might send for a servant.”

He paused, and Ned opened his mouth to speak although he knew not what he could say.

“Don’t say anything, Stark. Any denial would ring false, and any defense you might make for your actions would be as dishonorable as the actions themselves. I haven’t forgiven you for what you have done to Catelyn. I likely never will. But I am not Edmure. I will not pout and sulk and treat you with contempt in the courtyard of your home. Catelyn will never do those things either. She is better than that. She is better than you deserve, and yet I hope that you find a way to deserve her better for her sake.

“Whatever you feel for this bastard and his mother, remember that Robb will sit in your seat at Winterfell and rule the North upon your death. Do not allow your heir to feel you value your bastard more. As for Catelyn, if anything you said was true regarding your respect for her during your daughter’s birth, then think on that any time you pine for your lover because my daughter fought that battle for you, for your House, and for the entire North. She deserves to be revered by you for that alone.”

Ned looked his goodfather in the eye. “I wronged Catelyn. I do not deny it. I cannot turn a child of my blood away, and I never will, but Robb is my son and heir and he will never doubt his place in the North or in my eyes.

“As for my lady wife, you give her too little credit, Lord Tully. Yes, Catelyn deserves my respect, my fidelity, and my devotion for giving me my children. But she deserves all of those things for countless other reasons. I care not if she ever bears me another child. She will forever be my lady wife, and I will endeavor to honor her for the rest of my life, even if I can never be the husband she deserved to have.”

The two men looked at each other for a long while. Then Hoster nodded at the door and Ned opened it. Hoster gave Jon’s sleeping form barely a glance as he carried Robb to his empty bed. Any anger or resentment Ned felt toward the older man melted away as he laid Robb carefully down, pulling off his boots and pulling the covers over him. When he bent to kiss the sleeping boy’s forehead and ran his hand through his Tully colored hair, Ned could easily see him doing the same with a tiny Catelyn twenty years ago. No, Ned couldn’t resent his goodfather. Rather, he wondered how the man suppressed the desire to run him through with a sword.

Hoster acknowledged him with a brief nod before leaving the nursery, and Ned kissed then kissed both of his sleeping boys—the auburn haired tot who’d gorged on too many sweets while enchanting his grandfather and uncle and enjoying the adoration of everyone in the Great Hall this evening and the dark haired boy who so resembled his mother that simply looking at him sometimes was almost too painful and who’d spent the day alone with his nursemaid. Not for the first time, Ned asked the gods to help him be the father both of them needed and then asked their guidance in what seemed to him to be a far more difficult task—keeping all the promises he had made to both of their mothers.

 

The days of her family’s visit to Winterfell passed far too quickly for Catelyn, but after just over a fortnight, her father announced that they must return to Riverrun, grumbling that her uncle had turned down an overture for marriage from either the Brackens or Blackwoods—Catelyn couldn’t be sure as Hoster was more ranting about Uncle Brynden’s refusal to wed anyone than giving a coherent synopsis of what had occurred. But one of those lords had offered up some female relative to wed her uncle and his immediate refusal had led to accusations of the Tully’s favoring the other lord. Her father felt that his presence was required back in the Riverlands to avoid open warfare from breaking out between those two houses, and Catelyn could believe it. She’d watched them try her father’s patience with their petty feuds a thousand times over the years, her father could definitely settle this grievance better than her uncle. Uncle Brynden was one of the best soldiers in the world, but her father was a far better diplomat. 

On the second day of the Tullys visit, there was a definite chill between her father and her lord husband, and Catelyn wondered what had occurred between them. Her father never mentioned it, however, and she and Ned rarely spoke about anything other than the children or the running of Winterfell since Sansa’s birth so she had no way of finding out if they had words. She knew her father well enough to know how upset he was to learn about Ned’s bastard, though, so she imagined it likely had something to do with him.

Ned had kept the bastard from the welcome feast, but he could hardly be locked away for a fortnight, and as devoutly as she wished her husband would send the boy anywhere else to be raised, Catelyn was not so cruel as to even suggest such a thing. Both her father and her brother had seen Robb playing with Snow and other than a single observation that Snow was as ugly as his father which earned him a glare from Catelyn, neither of them mentioned the boy at all. They never insulted or accosted him. They simply treated him as if he were invisible, and it occurred to Catelyn that’s essentially what she did. A small part of her felt badly about the boy having three people present who so clearly didn’t want him there, but another small, much more selfish part, felt good about not being the only person in Winterfell who seemed to understand why he didn’t belong.

Her husband and father seemed to warm a bit toward each other by the visit’s end, however, and Catelyn counted that to the good. She still wasn’t certain why Ned had become so indifferent to her after Sansa’s birth, but she didn’t need enmity between her husband and father in addition to that situation. Edmure didn’t like Ned, plain and simple, because Edmure loved Catelyn and Ned had treated her unforgivably in his eyes. She still had enough influence over her brother to get him to behave better toward him as the visit went on, but she knew his feelings hadn’t changed. And as uncertain as she was about where she stood with Ned at the moment, she was hardly the one to convince him her husband was worthy of affection. So she took what she could get in terms of more cordial interactions and secretly loved Edmure dearly for his loyalty.

It was the last day of the old year when the Tullys were to depart. The changing of one year to the next was never celebrated as anything more than the changing of a calendar in the Riverlands as years meant little other than keeping track of people’s ages or when historical events occurred. The changes of the seasons—that undpredictable arrival of the next turn of the inevitable cycle of life in Westeros—those were celebrated grandly. But never the coming of just another year.

So, Hoster Tully was a bit confused as to why so many at Winterfell were puzzled by his leaving on this day rather than staying to celebrate the new year’s birth in the godswood. Catelyn stood with her father now in the little sept Ned had built her nearly a year ago and tried once more to explain it.

“The Starks are an old House,” she said.

“Yes. As are the Tullys.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “Yes. But you know very well, for all that we, too, still carry the blood of the First Men, we’re mostly Andals now, and we follow the Seven. The Starks are older than we are, and while I’m not the first woman from south of the Neck to marry into them, I’m one of the few. They are very proud of their adherence to the worship of the Old Gods. And with worship of the Old Gods comes quite a few old traditions and rituals that have been practiced so long, I don’t know that anyone recalls their origins. But one of these is celebrating the birth of a new year. Legend holds that long ago, in a time before even the First Men came to Westeros when the Children of the Forest peopled all the continent, all the seasons occurred in every year. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter would follow each other predictably—each lasting no more than three moons—and that something terrible happened which changed that.”

“You cannot believe such drivel.”

Catelyn laughed. “I don’t know if I believe it or not, but I do know that even Maester Luwin says there is some evidence that the seasons weren’t always how we know them now. In any event, the Northmen celebrate the birth of every new year as a way to remind their gods that they remember that each year is meant to be balanced, not unbalanced—and to pray that the upcoming year will bring balance and good rather than imbalance and evil.”

“They pray for short seasons?”

Catelyn laughed again. “No, not really. I don’t think anyone believes we’ll have every season in a year again—even if they believe the world once did. It’s more a metaphor now. And if you think about it, asking to find balance and goodness every year does seem a bit more hopeful than doing it only when the seasons change.”

“Mmm,” Hoster said. “Seasons do change eventually, Little Cat. And balance can be found even when you despair of it.” He sighed. “He’s a good man, your husband.”

“Father, I . . .”

“I’ll never forgive him for the insult he’s done you with that bastard,” Hoster interrupted her. “But I hope you can.”

She looked at him, her confusion apparently plain on her face. “You’ll understand when your children grow older, Cat. When you have more of them.”

_I’m not likely to have any more as long as my husband won’t touch me,_ she thought, but she said nothing.

“I am not an unforgiving man. Admittedly I’ve found it difficult to forgive any number of things over my lifetime and I won’t deny that. But oddly, the easiest slights to forgive are those to myself. More difficult to forgive are acts that are detrimental to House Tully or the Riverlands—acts like the disloyalty of some our bannermen during the Rebellion or even my damned brother’s refusal to man up and marry a woman from a suitable House with good alliance potential.” He shook his head if to clear it of thoughts of Brynden. “But the acts I find most impossible to forgive are those that hurt my children. And that’s why, as much as I respect your husband for many reasons, I cannot forgive him for what he has done to you.”

“And what would you have me do? Leave him?” 

“Absolutely not. I told you, Little Cat. I hope you can forgive him. He cares greatly for you. But he doesn’t think he deserves your forgiveness and because of that, I doubt he will ever ask for it.”

“He is not cruel to me,” she said softly. “He loves our children. He gives me free rein over the running of Winterfell. And I think he believes me to be good at it.” She took her father’s hands in hers. “But he does seek my forgiveness. He does not care enough for me to need it. But I have made peace with that, Father. I am wife to the Warden of the North. My son shall be the Warden of the North. I am respected here, in spite of my different accent and different gods. I have much.” _But I want more,_ she thought, schooling her face to keep that treacherous thought from her father.

“You are wrong,” he said simply. “What is this building?”

“A sept, of course.”

“Yes. The only sept in all the North outside White Harbor. You just told me how devoted Northmen are to their Old Gods. Why on earth did Stark build this?”

“For me,” she said. “He built it for me.”

“Indeed. I was not a perfect husband, Cat. I wronged your mother in many different ways over the years. And no, I’m not going to tell you how or when. Those transgressions were not against you and not yours to know about. But I was often too proud . . . or too ashamed . . . to simply ask her forgiveness. I gave her many gifts over the years—often simply to express my love, to thank her for you children, or to try to show her what I couldn’t tell her—how important she truly was to me. Because she was, sweetling. Your mother was the best part of me, and without her I am not the same man.”

“Oh, Father, I know how much you loved her and how much you miss her,” Catelyn said moving to throw her arms around him.

“What I want you to know, Little Cat, is that over all the years of our marriage, I never did anything for your mother that spoke as loudly of devotion or respect as this sept does.”

Catelyn stood silently for a moment, considering his words. It had been directly after Ned showed her what he was building here for the first time that they had begun to reach for each other more easily. They had laughed together. Their nights in her chambers had become something more than a dutiful quest for another heir. He’d even begun sleeping there sometimes, making her laugh when he’d wake in the mornings and throw open the windows as if he might melt. Everything had seemed so much . . . warmer. And when he’d charged into her chamber as she labored with Sansa, she’d been mortified, but . . . the expression on his face as he looked at her—she’d thought she’d seen something in that expression she’d never hoped to see. But she hadn’t seen it since.

“Little Cat?” her father said, interrupting her reverie. “It’s time for me to go. Just think on my words, will you?”

She nodded. As they left the sept, he turned to her. “Oh, one more thing. Did Sansa’s birth damage you?”

“What?” she asked. “Why would you ask that? I am not damaged, Father! Who would say such a thing?”

“No one,” he assured her quickly. “In fact, Lord Eddard assured me that you were well. It’s only that you wrote me that Sansa’s birth was easier than Robb’s and he told me that it was very difficult for you. I worry about you, child. I always will. But you needn’t shield me from your troubles.”

Catelyn tried to make sense of her father’s words. “Sansa’s birth was easier,” she said. “It wasn’t easy, mind you. I don’t think any birth is easy, but she came more quickly, and I did not have nearly as much bleeding. I have no idea why my lord husband told you differently.”

Hoster looked down, and Catelyn thought he was trying not to smile. “Mayhap you should ask him.”

As she walked with her father back toward the Great Keep, Catelyn decided that she would do just that.

 

The Tullys were gone, and while he was genuinely sorry for Catelyn that their visit had been cut short, he couldn’t help but be a bit relieved. Hoster Tully was a good man. He knew that. But it wasn’t pleasant having someone who so clearly pointed out your worst failings living under your roof. 

He’d ridden out to join his men on their hunt after the Tullys departed. It was traditional to eat only meat which had been killed on the last day of the year at the Night Feast held after the celebration of the new year’s birth in the Godswood. They’d done well. Nearly a dozen large deer. The poor cooks would likely be readying food from now until midnight. He looked toward the horizon and saw that the sun was just now setting. He had several hours. He walked to the Great Keep so he could get out of his filthy clothes and clean himself up. Just inside the door, however, he met his lady wife.

“My lord,” she said, “Would you come speak with me for a moment?”

“Of course, my lady,” he said, puzzled by her manner. She didn’t appear angry, but she certainly seemed . . . determined.

To his surprise, she led him not to his solar, but to her chambers. “My lady,” he said quickly, “Would it not be better to speak in my solar?”

“There’s no fire lit, my lord. You won’t melt.” She opened the door and waited for him to follow her inside.

The last time he’d spent any time in this room, she’d brought their daughter into the world, nearly killing herself in the process. He’d been here since then, of course, but only to tell Catelyn something or ask her something. He couldn’t stay here alone with her because his mind would fill too quickly with many other times he’d been alone with her in this room, and he didn’t trust himself to be strong enough to walk away.

“Why did you build me a sept?” she asked abruptly.

He wasn’t expecting that. “Because I wanted Winterfell to be your home,” he said. “How could it ever be your home if your gods aren’t welcome here?”

“That was kind of you, my lord. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He paused and then decided to speak. “I am not certain I succeeded, however.”

“What do you mean?” she asked him.

“When I first showed you the sept,” he said, “I thought . . . I thought you became more at home. More at ease . . . . with the North . . . with Winterfell . . . “ He looked her in the eyes. “And with me.”

“You wish me to be at ease with you, my lord?” she asked him, meeting his gaze without looking away. 

He wished her eyes were less blue. Less beautiful. Mayhap she would be easier to speak openly to if they were. “Of course. Did I not ask you to call me by my name? And you did . . . for a time.”

She laughed at that, but she didn’t sound happy. “You haven’t called me by name since Sansa was born!” she nearly shouted at him. “Were you disappointed because she’s only a girl or because she looks like Tully instead of a Stark?” Her voice was higher pitched than normal, and he thought he saw tears in those distractingly lovely blue eyes.

“I am not disappointed in Sansa at all! Why would you ask such a thing? Our daughter is perfect.”

She looked at him as if she didn’t quite believe him, and that hurt him far more than he wanted to admit even to himself. He had no one to blame but himself if she didn’t trust him, after all. He’d given her ample reason to doubt him.

“Why did you tell my father that I didn’t handle Sansa’s birth well?” she asked him then.

“I never said any such thing,” he insisted. “He asked me if you were well, and I told him that you were. That her birth had been terribly difficult but that you were well now. Why are you asking me these things, Catelyn?”

She smiled a little then although her eyes were still moist. “Catelyn,” she repeated. “With no Lady in front of it. At least I feel you are speaking to me now, Ned. To me, Catelyn. Not the Lady of Winterfell that you happened to acquire along with my father’s troops.”

“I have never thought of you like that,” he said quickly. “We did not choose each other, my lady. But fate blessed me beyond what I deserve when I wed you and I know that well.”

“But you have done nothing but push me away since Sansa’s birth,” she said, looking at him incredulously. “I felt it, too, you know. That something was changing between us after you built my sept. Changing in a good way.” She shook her head. “I love Winterfell, Ned. I honestly do. I don’t think I realized how much I have come to love this place until my family was here. They’ve only been gone a few hours, and I miss them terribly already, but I didn’t want to go with them. Because Winterfell is my place now. My children are Starks, even if they do look like Tullys. I want this to be my home, but it’s hard to believe it can be when you make it so clear you do not want me.”

“Not want you?” Ned sputtered incredulously. “Not want you? Catelyn, how could any man alive look at you and not want you? You are beautiful and brilliant and brave. Oh gods, I knew you were brave, but I had no idea how brave until I saw you bring our daughter into this world. I have never witnessed a more difficult battle fought with more courage, my lady. And I say ‘my lady’ because that is what you are. You are my lady, Catelyn. You were not meant to be. You were destined for a greater man than I. Yet fate intervened and you are mine. I have lived with you in this castle for two years now, and I assure you that I want you here. Whether it is right of me to want you here or not.”

“You want me here running your castle or you want me as your wife? Because there is a difference, my lord. Men bed their wives, and it has been over four moons since you touched me. How have I failed you?”

“You have never failed me,” he said quietly. “It would seem I have failed you once more.” He walked forward and took her hands in his. “I wronged you terribly before you ever set foot in Winterfell, and yet you did not turn cold. When your righteous anger toward me cooled, you did not become ice. Instead, you were warm. I did not expect that. I had prayed for it, but I scarcely dared to hope. I do not believe I have thanked you for that warmth, my lady.”

She stood there silently, not taking her hands from his and waiting for him to continue.

“I thought you would die,” he said simply. “When I heard you screaming in this room, I thought someone would soon come and tell me you had died.” Ned closed his eyes against the memory of Catelyn’s screams, the memory of Lyanna’s screams, the memory of Lyanna cold and still. Then he opened his eyes once more to reassure himself that Catelyn was standing before him, her hands warm in his. “That’s why I could not remain outside. I confess I had no thought of the babe. I only feared that I would lose you. I had only just discovered how much I needed your warmth and I could lose it. And that’s why I couldn’t leave. It was foolish I know. The battle was yours, not mine, but I felt compelled to hold your hand. To hold onto you.”

“You helped,” she said quietly. “When Robb was born, my sister Lysa held my hand. Maester Luwin was wonderful as were the two handmaids helping, but . . . no one held my hand until you came in. You helped.”

“I am glad of that, Catelyn.”

“But I don’t understand,” she said. “If you feel this way, why have you pushed me away?”

He walked away and gazed out her window into the darkness. He couldn’t explain it all to her. Some secrets couldn’t be shared. But maybe he could tell her some of it. “Was Robb’s birth truly more difficult?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said. “Sansa’s was much easier.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “It didn’t appear easy.”

“I didn’t say it was easy. Only that it wasn’t as difficult as Robb’s. All births are different, I believe. Maester Luwin said I was made to have babies, whatever that means. Apparently, my body is formed to do it well.”

“Our mothers both died in childbed,” he said quietly. “My sister died in my arms. Her situation was different, of course, but I felt the life leave her as I held her hand.” He turned back to look at his wife—this woman who’d borne him two children and managed his castle for two years—this woman he was still learning to know, but already knew meant more to him than he’d ever dreamed anyone could. “I never want to lose you like that.”

Catelyn walked over to him and put her hands on his face. “So, you planned never to touch me again so that I wouldn’t die in childbed?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “I kept telling myself that you needed time to recover from Sansa’s birth. And I kept myself away from you because I didn’t trust myself—not to touch you.” He smiled ruefully at her. “And then you seemed angry at me. And I didn’t want to push. I promised myself long ago that I would never ask for any more than you were willing to give.”

“I’m your wife. You have every right to ask anything of me.”

“I’m your husband. And I choose to take only what you freely give. And I would give you almost anything you ask for, Catelyn.”

“Almost,” she whispered sadly, looking down.

“Catelyn,” he said, wishing this could be different. “I . . .”

“No. Let’s not speak of what we can’t do or what we can’t have. Tonight, a new year will be born. Let it be a new start for us, Ned. Let us start it now. No more guessing at what the other thinks or wants. Ask me if you want to know what I think or feel. And I’ll do the same. I was angry at you.” She smiled at him. “I was angry at you because I thought you didn’t want me.”

“It would appear we have been very foolish, my lady.”

“You were foolish, first,” she said, smiling more widely.

“I was foolish first,” he acknowledged.

Her expression turned serious. “You’ve lost a lot of people much too quickly, Ned. I do understand. But let’s trade our fears for a bit of happiness, shall we? Let’s see if we can find that together.”

He didn’t answer her. He was out of words. Instead, he put his mouth to hers and kissed her, gently at first, but then more insistently. Without another word between them, he then lifted her up and carried her to the bed where he’d lain with her so many times, where they’d made Sansa together, where he’d watched her bring Sansa into the world through blood and pain. He laid her down on that bed and decided that he wanted to do precisely what Catelyn had asked. He wanted to put away fears and doubts and lingering resentments. He wanted to hold on to this woman and have some happiness. And he wasn’t going to wait until after midnight to do it.

 

SIX YEARS LATER

“Father, will we still go to the godswood? I see people with lanterns walking there now.” The dark haired girl was standing on a chair in Catelyn’s chamber peering out the window.

“Yes, Arya,” Ned replied, ruffling his little daughter’s hair. “Your mother won’t be able to join us this year, I’m afraid, and little Rickon will stay with her, but the rest of us will go in a few moments.”

“But I want you to go, Mama!” Arya exclaimed jumping from the chair to run to Catelyn’s bed. “You always go!”

“Easy, sweetling,” Catelyn said, protecting her still tender lower half from her daughter’s leap onto the bed. “I hate to miss it, too, but I’m afraid Maester Luwin will tell me now.” She grinned up at her husband. “Your father will, too.”

Ned looked to make certain Old Nan was carefully watching Robb and Sansa as they sat on the floor cooing over their newborn brother who lay on Robb’s lap. Little Bran had fallen asleep on the floor beside them. Certain that all his children were safe and content for the moment, he walked over and bent down to kiss his wife in her bed.

“I did only promise to give you _almost_ anything you asked for, my love,” he told her. “Midnight trips to the godswood an hour after bringing a child into the world will not be allowed.”

She laughed. “You remember that new year’s conversation, do you?”

“You know I do.”

“Thank you for holding my hand again tonight,” she said.

“Thank you for my new son,” he answered.

“I love the fact that Rickon was born on the same night as the new year,” Catelyn said with a smile. “It feels like a promise fulfilled. Do you know what I mean?”

“You have always fulfilled your promises, Cat. On this night and every other. I love you, my lady.”

“I love you, too,” she said with a smile. “But I didn’t mean our promises to each other. I guess I mean more like an answered prayer. Six years ago, on this night, we decided we’d look for happiness together. And when we went to the godswood . . .”

“A bit late, as I recall,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, a bit,” she said, her cheeks glowing a soft pink in the firelight. “But I prayed to your Old Gods and to mine that year and every new year’s night since to let us find the right balance between us and to have that happiness. Look at them, Ned. Look at all of them! The gods have answered that prayer. All the happiness I’ll ever need is in this room right now.”

Ned smiled at her. “I’ll say your prayer for you in the godswood tonight, my love. And I’ll stop in the sept and offer one to yours, too. Then I’ll put Bran into his bed because I don’t think he’s going to make it through the feast. I’ll then start the festivities, put Emma and Alys in charge of getting the other children into bed after they’ve eaten or when they start to fall asleep, and I’ll come right back to you.”

“You needn’t miss the feast, Ned,” she told him. “But thank you—for offering to go to the sept.” She’d added a prayer in her sept to her own celebration of the new year’s birth years ago.

“I don’t want a feast. This night is ours. I’ll celebrate in the godswood with the children, and then I’ll come back here and hold you in my arms and watch you and our newest wolf pup sleep. I can’t imagine a happier beginning to a new year. Can you?”

Her smile was all the answer he needed.


End file.
